


Bad War, Good Soldier

by raving_liberal



Category: Glee
Genre: Epistolary, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Military Backstory, Past Character Death, Pen Pals, Please read notes, Wounded Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When cleaning out his brother's apartment, Kurt comes across a letter from an anonymous pen pal on the other side of the country. Passing himself off as Recipient #5893, Kurt forges a friendship with the wounded soldier, Recipient #14507. Is the relationship they build on support, advice, and mutual loneliness enough to overcome Kurt’s initial deceit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad War, Good Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** Prior/off-screen death of a major canonical character. 
> 
> While this story was completed prior to Cory Monteith’s recent passing, the similarities between his death and the character death in this story may be upsetting. I strongly considered withdrawing this story from the bang for this reason. **Please read with caution.**

  
This isn't the family reunion Kurt had wanted. Kurt and Burt manage to get the whole apartment packed in less than a day, but then, the space is small and Finn wasn’t in it long. Every piece of furniture in the apartment had at one point originated at Ikea, though much of it looks like Finn had purchased it second-hand. While packing the kitchen, Burt discovers nearly two dozen Allen wrenches in various sizes mixed in with Finn’s paltry assortment of utensils. For some reason, Kurt finds the wrench-to-utensil ratio almost impossibly sad. He has to excuse himself to the tiny bathroom to cry and splash cold water on his face, because what kind of life had Finn been living that he owned over twenty Allen wrenches but only two forks?

The truck won’t be coming until the next morning, so they stack the boxes by the front door alongside the disassembled furniture. The only thing remaining is a box of papers, files, and notepads from Finn’s desk. Burt stands over the box, staring down at it for several minutes and looking lost, before Kurt finally says, “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll go through it. You go back to the hotel and check on Carole.”

Palpable relief pours off Burt as he nods at Kurt, resting one of his hands on Kurt’s shoulder and leaving it there for a moment before giving a gentle squeeze. “Yeah. That’s a good idea,” Burt says. “You gonna be alright going through it by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. If I have any questions about anything, I’ll just set it aside, and you or Carole can look at it when you’re ready,” Kurt says gently. “Go. Bring her a sandwich from that deli she likes, maybe pick up some chocolate ice cream.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, that’s good, she’ll like that,” Burt says. "You’re always so thoughtful." He puts his jacket on and gives Kurt a brief, but firm, hug before turning and walking out of the apartment, leaving Kurt alone with a cardboard box full of Finn’s personal papers. 

Kurt hadn’t been honest when he told Burt he’d be fine to go through Finn’s papers. He's not fine, not at all, but his ability to handle things like a box of Finn's personal papers is still miles above Burt's. And Carole… frankly, Kurt's amazed she's managed as well as she has, even with the bottle of valium that traveled with her to New York.

Burt had thrown the contents of Finn's desk into the box without any consideration for order or neatness. Kurt can't blame him, not when a scrap of paper with a too-short grocery list scribbled in Finn's handwriting is enough to make Kurt's stomach clench into knots. He'll probably be popping one of his own valium later that night, once he gets back to his apartment and wraps himself in a pair of flannel pajamas and his favorite quilt. Something has to provide a barrier between Kurt and his guilt over leaving his brother alone to flounder in pain and confusion while Kurt was only a twenty minute cab ride away.

Kurt takes a deep breath and forces himself to dive into the box, sorting things into piles he mentally labels 'throw away', 'keep', and 'keep, but keep away from Carole'. Receipts, the aforementioned shopping list, old bills, a printed and color-coded chart of what medications to take and when— those all go into the 'throw away' pile. Finn's address book, all his Army paperwork, and an assortment of photographs get shuffled into the 'keep' pile. A journal and a few half-finished thank you cards from after Finn got out of the hospital go into the third pile, the small stack of items that Kurt can’t bear to throw away, but that Carole probably doesn’t ever need to see.

Kurt finds the letter tucked inside a yellow legal pad, the top of the envelope jaggedly torn open by clumsy fingers. The envelope itself has an embossed logo and ‘Mightier Than the Sword’ in the corner with the return address. Kurt murmurs "Oh Finn" as he pulls the trifolded sheet of paper out, smoothing it to reveal two page letter, handwritten on notepad paper from a hotel chain Kurt isn’t familiar with. He has to squint to read the scratchy writing, tilting it towards the window so the light filtering in between the blinds can catch the words. A Los Angeles mailing address is scribbled at the bottom of the letter.  


> Dear Recipient #5893,
> 
> I don't know what I'm supposed to write. Who is this supposed to be helping, anyway? Me or you or both of us, I don't know. To be real honest with you, my shrink said it was this or she’s upping my meds, plus maybe some kind of inpatient thing, and I don't know about you #5893 but I don't want to spend my days tranqued to the gills and surrounded by a bunch of nutjobs. I meet my nutjob quota just fine on my own, thanks.
> 
> So anyway, here goes nothing. The worst that can happen is you don’t write back and they assign me some other fucked up soldier boy to write to, and I don’t feel too bad about saying that since I’m a fucked up soldier boy, too. Fucked up Marine here, what about you? Did you get stuck writing because of a shrink or did you sign up for this all on your own? If you signed up on your own I’m going ahead and guessing you’re Air Force. I don’t mean that as an insult. Well shit, I guess I do a little bit. Sorry about that.
> 
> Are you still reading #5893 who may or may not be Air Force? I’d have quit reading by now, so if you did I won’t take it too personally. So ok here we go. Honesty time. May as well throw the whole thing out there so you know what you’re dealing with. If you don’t like it you can take it up with your shrink. Or with your own damn self, Air Force boy. 
> 
> I don't know how how this is supposed to help, but I hope it does. I hope to G-d it does, because I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. I guess it's not a real good situation for me. In fact I guess you could say it's pretty fucking bleak. Shrink’s probably right about the meds, you know, but I still think she oughta try getting her own arm blown off before she gets all high and mighty about how I deal with mine, is all I’m saying.
> 
> Ok #5893. Ball’s in your court. Are you playing cross-country pen pal pingpong with the crazy or should I get them to assign me another nice fucked up Air Force boy to bother?
> 
> Yours truly,  
>  Recipient #14507

  
Kurt reads the letter three times before he refolds it and returns it to its envelope. He’ll look up Mightier Than the Sword when he gets back to his apartment later, but #14507’s letter paints a good picture of it as some sort of pen pal program for soldiers, perhaps with a debilitating injury or with mental health issues. Kurt wonders if Finn ever wrote back—the date on the envelope suggests he wouldn’t have had much of a chance to—and if the Marine’s situation ever improved. Kurt hopes so.

After regarding the three piles in front of him, Kurt ends up folding the envelop in half and sticking it into his coat pocket. He has to finish sorting through the box without breaking down, and that’s challenge enough without worrying about some anonymous Marine. Once Finn’s apartment is taken care of, Kurt can figure out what to do about Recipient #14507.  


  
After Chinese take-out, a hot shower, and two episodes of ‘Diners, Drive-ins and Dives’ on Food Network, Kurt feels almost human again. He’s only in his mid-30s—mid-to- _late_ 30s if he’s acknowledging it to himself, rather than divulging his age to someone else—and in peak physical condition, but the muscles in his lower back ache from dismantling Finn’s furniture and lifting boxes. Kurt pours himself an overly-large glass of his favorite pinot noir, taking it to his bedroom, along with his quilt, then comes back for his laptop and the envelope he took from Finn’s apartment. He sits on top of his duvet, wraps his quilt around his shoulders, and Googles ‘Mightier Than the Sword’.

Like Kurt suspected from the letter’s content, Mightier Than the Sword is a pen pal program for wounded soldiers, specifically having difficulties reintegrating into society after their injuries and traumas overseas. Kurt thinks about how withdrawn Finn was in the hospital, tries to remember the last time he saw Finn's old wide grin, pictures Finn the way he looked the last time they got together, and how gaunt he'd become in such a short period of time. The pen pal program sounds like exactly the thing Finn needed, but it came too late.

Kurt takes the letter out of the envelope again, spreading it out on top of his duvet next to the laptop. Maybe this Recipient #14507 could have helped Finn. He—Kurt assumes it's a he, since the letter’s author writes with a distinctly male voice—is brash and more than a little blunt, but maybe that could have been just the thing to draw Finn out of himself again. Finn always appreciated frank talk, or simple and straightforward talk, at least. 

Kurt glances over at his clock, surprised to see it’s already close to midnight. He picks up his phone on an impulse, dialing Rachel's number. The phone rings four times before Rachel answers, her voice slurred and sleepy.

"Kurt?"

"Did you know about this pen pal program?" Kurt asks with no attempt at small talk or apologies for the late hour. Whatever friendship they'd had, no matter how close they'd become while Finn was deployed, Rachel is still the woman who walked out on Kurt's brother while Finn was floundering down at his rock bottom, and never even bothered to let anyone in Finn’s family know what bad shape he was in. Even if it was an act of self-preservation as Rachel claimed, and not an act of malice, it’s still unforgivable to Kurt. 

"Kurt," Rachel says, sounding irritated, but somehow still sympathetic. Always the consummate actress, their Rachel. "Today was apartment day."

She doesn’t ask it like it's a question. She says it like she knows it's a certainty, and that just makes Kurt angrier.

"Should I assume Carole called you?" Kurt asks sharply. He can't resist tacking on a cutting, "Again?"

"I assured her I'd already taken everything from the apartment that held any sentimental value to me," Rachel says. "I just couldn't bear seeing how bad it looked in there by the end. Surely you can understand that."

"But we could bear it?" Kurt asks. "His brother? His father? Thank God Carole has us and didn't have to go over there herself!" He makes himself stop before he gets any angrier, taking a deep breath and steadying his voice. "But that's beside the point. Pen pal program. Did you know about it?"

"Something for soldiers, right?" Rachel asks. Kurt makes a small noise of assent. "He mentioned it a few times, but I don't know that he ever signed up for it. He was too invested in feeling sorry for himself to expand that to feeling sorry for someone else.”

Kurt literally bites his tongue, taking a deep breath in and exhaling through his nose before he answers. "Sorry to bother you at such a late hour," he finally says. "You take care, Rachel."

"And you as well, Kurt," Rachel says before she ends the call. 

Kurt looks down at the letter again. His tongue sore and his mouth tasting like blood, he reads the letter again and again. Finally, he decides the only fair solution is to sleep on it, so Kurt moves the laptop and letter off the bed, climbs under his duvet, and falls into an uneasy sleep.  


  
The solution comes to Kurt in his sleep, or rather, he wakes up with the idea. _He_ can write to the Marine. He knows enough about Finn’s military career to throw in a few details, and he can provide an ear for Recipient #14507, so they can exchange a few letters and then Kurt can bring the correspondence to a gentle end. Since Kurt isn’t recovering from a recent injury and military-related trauma, he might actually be able to be of help to the Marine. He’ll need to think through the steps of the plan, though, before he even considers writing back.

Kurt meets Burt at Finn’s apartment to load the small truck Burt rented. They load the boxes and the furniture in silence, and once the apartment is empty, Kurt goes back in and runs the small vacuum over the carpet. He locks the apartment behind him as he leaves.

“I’ll drop the key off by the company on the way out,” Burt says. “I’ve just got to go back to the hotel to pick up Carole, and we’re hitting the road.”

“Have a safe drive, Dad,” Kurt says. He pulls Burt into a hug. “Give Carole a hug and kiss for me, and you two check in along the way. Let me know when you’re back to Lima safely.”

“Will do,” Burt promises. As he starts to pull away from the hug, his hands come to rest on Kurt’s shoulders. “Thanks for doing this with me.”

“Of course, Dad. I just wish I had done more when it still counted,” Kurt says.

“This still counts, Kurt. It counts a lot to me and Carole.”

“I know it does,” Kurt says softly. “I wish it could have meant more to Finn.”

Burt nods silently, his hands squeezing Kurt’s shoulders one more time before letting him go. He glances over at the truck and sighs. “Time to hit the road I guess.”

“I love you, Dad,” Kurt says.

“Love you too, kid,” Burt answers. Kurt watches as Burt gets into the truck and awkwardly pulls out of the spot where it was parallel parked and into the slow-moving flow of street traffic. Kurt stands in front of the apartment building until the truck turns a corner and disappears from Kurt’s line of sight. Kurt lets his body sag from its normal perfect posture, now that the he’s not having to help keep Burt’s spirits up.

Kurt should take a taxi back across to Manhattan and take care of his own weekend chores and errands before he’s up early for work on Monday. Events on the editorial calendar don’t go on hold just because Kurt spent the weekend in Wyckoff Heights packing. Instead, Kurt walks a few blocks over to the Wyckoff Heights Post Office to see if they’re holding any mail for Finn. 

The small packet of mail contains only junk and one credit card bill that Kurt needs to forward to Rachel, since legally she’s the one who has to handle those. On a whim, Kurt checks the price on PO boxes. If Recipient #14507 knows anything at all about New York, he would probably realize an Upper West Side address is likely out of the price range of a traumatized, recently injured soldier. Wyckoff Heights is a long way to go just to perpetrate a ruse for a pen pal, but it’s only for a few letters’ worth of time. 

His new Wyckoff Heights PO box secured, Kurt catches a taxi back across the bridge towards Lower Manhattan. He gets on the 2 at Fulton Street and takes it to 96th, where he walks to Columbus Avenue Stationery and buys a set of nice, but nondescript, stationery. His own personal stationery is embossed with his monogram, which makes it ill-suited for pretending to be Finn. The heavy cream-colored paper is both classic and practical, and Kurt likes to think it’s something Finn himself might have bought, if he’d been able to hold up his end of the pen pal relationship. 

After the stationery shop, Kurt walks nine blocks down to Joe Coffee. He orders his usual white mocha with a touch of caramel syrup and settles into a corner table with his new stationery and a pen, trying to write a letter that will convince #14507 that he’s really Finn.  


> Dear Recipient #14507,
> 
> I’m sorry for the delay in this response. I’m sure you understand how things can be.
> 
> Excellent try with the guessing, but you’re incorrect about the Air Force. Just the Army, I’m afr

  
Kurt stops himself and shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound anything like Finn,” he says to himself. He balls up the paper and starts over with a fresh sheet.  


> Dear Recipient #14507,
> 
> Watch it, jarhead. I’m Army, not Air Force, and don’t you forget it.

  
Yes, that’s much better, Kurt decides. He smiles to himself, thinking of Finn saying the words, but the reality that Finn will never say them crashes down hard, and the smiles melts as Kurt continues writing.  


> And yeah, I found the pen pal thing on my own. I may be infantry, but that doesn’t mean I can’t Google. I knew I needed something else after I came back. I hoped this would help. I’m like you, though. I don’t know if it’s going to help or how it’s supposed to, unless it’s just having somebody to talk to that understands. I think that’s the worst part about what happened, that nobody understands.
> 
> I’m married, but my wife couldn’t handle how different I was when I came back. Not just the physical stuff, even though I know she had a hard time with my leg, too. I hadn’t been home very long when she left. I didn’t tell anybody, not even my family. I guess I didn’t know how to tell them I’d screwed that up, too.

  
At this point, Kurt’s just guessing. He doesn’t know how Finn really felt, because Finn never told him. It’s true, though, what he’s writing. Rachel left, and Finn never told any of them. They didn’t find out until months later that Rachel wasn’t living with him anymore, and it was only because Carole got worried one day when she couldn’t reach Finn and called Rachel on her mobile phone.  


> Do you have any family out there with you? Wife or girlfriend? How have they handled your injury and all the stuff that comes with it? My mom cried a lot when I came back. My stepdad kept calling me “son” and shaking his head a lot. I have a brother, too. He lives on the other side of the city. I don’t see him much since I’ve been back. I think it’s hard for him. Not my leg specifically, just the whole thing with me, the not integrating back into society thing. I miss him.

  
More conjecture on Kurt’s part, but surely Finn must have felt abandoned by all of them, Kurt in particular. They were supposed to be brothers, yet in the end, Kurt had walked out on Finn just as thoroughly as Rachel had.  


> Do you mind if I ask how your injury happened? That's one of the things that bugs me, that nobody wants to hear about it. They don't want to hear how or where, or talk about what it was like for me or how I’m actually doing now. They just want to keep telling how great I'm doing and how good I look. It's kind of amazing how good they all think I look, since between you and me, I think I look and feel like a great big pile of shit. 
> 
> If you want to keep writing, you can send letters directly to me and skip the pen pal middlemen if you’d rather. My return address is on the envelope.
> 
> Ball’s back to you,  
>  #5893

  
Kurt reads back over the letter a few times. The spelling is probably a little better than Finn’s would have been, the grammar as well, but Kurt thinks it’s a believable letter from an Army Specialist from the midwest. He slips the letter in an envelope with his new PO box information as the return address, writes Recipient #14507’s address in Los Angeles on the front, finishes his coffee, and then catches a taxi back to his apartment.

The thought occurs to Kurt as he puts the envelope into his mailbox for the Monday morning mail that he might be using this as a kind of a cheap fast-track to atonement. It’s too late to give Finn the help he needed, and maybe Kurt should have to carry that guilt longer, but that doesn’t mean Kurt can’t help some other soldier in a similar situation. Hopefully Recipient #14507 will feel like he has a kindred spirit in Recipient #5893.  


  
Three weeks pass before Kurt makes it back out to Wyckoff Heights to check his PO box. _Vogue_ is in its busiest season preparing for Fashion Week, which means Kurt’s weekends have dwindled down to Sundays only, and sometimes he even spends half of Sunday in the office. After years spent clawing his way up through the ranks of the editorial department, Kurt doesn’t even mind the six to six-and-a-half day work weeks.

“Go home, Lacy,” he tells his assistant. 

“I stay as late as you stay when it’s Fashion Week, remember?” Lacy says.

“What if I promise you that I’m leaving?” 

“I’ll leave once I see you get in a taxi or on a train,” Lacy says stubbornly. “You’re going to work yourself to death if I’m not here.”

“Then call me a taxi,” Kurt says. 

He takes the taxi out to the Wyckoff Heights Post Office and has it wait while he runs in to check the box. The neighborhood doesn’t have anything else to offer Kurt besides guilt, so he has no reason to stay any longer than it takes him to open the box and pull out the single letter inside. He tucks it into his coat and gets back in the taxi, directing the driver towards home. 

Kurt makes himself prepare a light dinner and take care of a few other chores around the apartment before reading the letter. It sits on the coffee table while Kurt runs a vacuum over the rug, goes over some paperwork for the next day, and eats his fish and steamed Asian vegetables with a glass of wine. He drinks a second glass of wine while he takes a hot bath, and only after he’s in his pajamas and headed to bed does he take the letter and open it.  


> Dear Army Boy,
> 
> My sincerest apologies for the Air Force business. Don’t know what I was thinking. Those were fighting words!
> 
> That sucks about your wife. Kind of makes me glad I don’t have anybody but me out here. I’ve got a little girl, Beth. She lives back in Ohio with her mom. I guess she’s not really so little since she’s already in high school, but since I don’t see her a lot, it’s just easier to think of her as little. Time kind of fucks with me like that sometimes. 
> 
> It’s rough about your folks. At least they care, which is better than I can say about mine. Me and my mom aren’t exactly close and my dad split when I was a kid. I’ve got a kid sister that doesn’t like me and a half-brother I barely know, and that’s about it. Maybe give your brother a break and he’ll get his shit together and come around. At least you know he’s there and that ain’t nothing. 
> 
> On to lighter topics, you asked about my arm. It’s a long grisly story, as I expect you probably know first hand (you see how I made a hand joke there? haven’t lost my sense of humor), but the long and short of it is is I was a field artillery fire control man. Not usually the most dangerous job, but my entire unit ran into problems a couple hundred miles out of Kandahar, my hand and forearm got crushed by debris, and that’s pretty much that. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I wasn’t a southpaw, or I’d be feeling might lonely about now, because prosthetics don’t exactly rev my motor.
> 
> Nice to meet you. My name is Corporal Overshare. 
> 
> What about you? You said it was your leg. You lose it above or below the knee? They fit you for a decent prosthetic at least? If I ever get the money together, I’m getting one of those fancy ones with the tattoos and snakes coming out of them, or maybe something that looks like a cyborg. If I’ve gotta live one-armed, I ought to be able to do it with some style, yeah?
> 
> You probably don’t look as bad as you feel. Or maybe you do. Send pictures and I’ll get the girls at work to rate them for you. It’s one more service the US Marine Corps has to offer.
> 
> Yours truly,  
>  Corporal Overshare

  
Kurt realizes he's smiling more widely than is likely appropriate, given recent circumstances and the fact that Recipient #14507's humor seems to be very amputee-centric. Kurt _isn't_ a wounded soldier. He shouldn't be included in those jokes like he and this Marine share something in common. Still, he can't shake the smile, and he has to force himself to stay in bed and not immediately hop up to write a response. Instead, he tucks the letter back into its envelope and sets it on the bedside table.

"Goodnight, Corporal Overshare," Kurt whispers into his empty bedroom. 

Monday morning is hectic. No, beyond hectic. _Havoc_. The galleys come back all wrong, which suggests a cascade of failures starting in the art department, and Kurt spends the first five hours of the day alternating between being yelled at by his higher-ups and yelling at his lower-downs. The only one who avoids getting yelled at is Lacy, who keeps silently swapping his empty coffee cup with a fresh one. He'd planned to pen his response to Recipient #14507 at lunch, but as lunch hour comes and goes, he accepts that it was a tenuous plan at best, resting on the shaky premise of an entire magazine not falling apart in the eleventh hour. 

Kurt finally gets his "lunch" break a quarter to five. Lacy orders up a double-veggie sandwich from the deli, plus—after giving Kurt a quick, yet somehow immensely judgmental, up and down glance—his personal indulgence of the stickiest, flakiest baklava he's found in the city so far. He eats the sandwich mechanically; it's fuel and it's moderately friendly to his waist and hips. The baklava, however, is meant to be savored. Kurt buzzes Lacy and asks her to find him a latte, double shot of espresso, and he nibbles his baklava while he sips gratefully at his latte and rereads the letter. Even another day out, the hand joke is still funny. As the office gradually quietens, most of the staff returning home, Kurt takes his pen to the creamy fake-Finn stationery.  


> Dear Corporal Overshare,
> 
> I would say I'm shocked by your hand-related humor, but I'm afraid I wouldn't have a leg to stand on.
> 
> Did that make you groan as much as it did me? I'd hate to cause even more mental turmoil, after all. Maybe we should cut our losses before we end up begging for the meds, just to dull the pain of each other's terrible puns. 
> 
> Below the knee. The prosthesis doesn't sit on there comfortably; maybe you have the right idea about going for something fancier. Perhaps a pegleg would do. It's very traditional. 
> 
> I'm sorry you don't have a good relationship with your siblings. Do you think it's too late? If your sister doesn't like you, could you try to give her a reason to? If your half-brother doesn't know you, have you tried writing to him about it instead of me? You aren't shabby with a pen, my friend. It's worth a shot. If I had a way to mend things with my brother, I'd do anything. If I had a way to bridge that gulf and know there was a chance he'd hear me, I'd take that chance. You never know how many opportunities you'll have left to reach out. Take them while you have them. Trust a simple artilleryman. Take them.
> 
> It must be hard to be so far away from your daughter. Since you're Corporal Overshare, you won't mind me asking if it was an ugly divorce or something else. I never thought of children as being something on my horizon, so I really don't know what else to say.
> 
> How's your sleeping? Mine is intermittent and rocky, and I'm hoping for some reassurances here.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Private Pegleg

  
Kurt hopes he’s not overstepping or being too heavy-handed, because no matter how much he’s pretending to be Finn, he _isn’t_ Finn. He doesn’t really have the right to the kind of opinions and advice he’s offering to this Marine. Finn would, though, and now Kurt’s right back to pretending to be someone that he’s not; maybe he should cut this correspondence off sooner, rather than later.

He finishes his lunch and sticks the letter in with the outgoing mail for the next day, then jumps back into the rest of the day’s work, not making it home until close to nine. Kurt falls into a light and uneasy sleep, full of vivid dreams he won't remember when he wakes up, beyond a vague but pervasive feeling of guilt.

Fashion Week comes and goes, along with another issue of _Vogue_ and at least two pounds of weight off Kurt’s frame, despite Lacy’s best efforts to keep him fed, before Kurt makes it back out to his PO box in Wyckoff Heights. Kurt takes the taxi over early on the next Saturday morning, getting his mail from the PO box—two letters this time; he did take longer than expected to get the mail this time—then stopping for a coffee and a possibly too-indulgent asiago bagel at the little bagel place on the corner just up from the post office. 

Finn used to talk about those bagels. In fact, Kurt doesn't recall much conversation between the two of them in Finn's last few months that didn't seem to revolve around Finn's fondness for their poppy seed bagels. Kurt doesn't particularly care for poppy seed bagels, which doesn't stop him from buying a half dozen of them to cart back to Manhattan with him. Some people's guilt can only be assuaged through blood; Kurt's guilt seems to call for poppy seeds as a starter course. 

Kurt reads his letters in his apartment with music playing quietly in the background and a poppy seed bagel on a plate in front of him. The first letter is short, the handwriting spikier and pressed deeper into the page than usual.  


> P.P.,
> 
> Look, kid. You don't know me or my family, so maybe take a step back and stop assuming the breakdown of communication is a failure on my part to try hard enough. Just because your brother dropped you like a hot potato doesn't mean that's something I'd do to my own family. Keep your theories to yourself. I already have one g-ddamn shrink and I don't need another.
> 
> C.O.
> 
> P.S. I sleep like shit, too. Happy? Are we BFFs 4eva now?

  
“Well, shit,” Kurt says to himself as he refolds the letter and returns it to its envelope. “Managed to screw that one up, Hummel. Masterful job.” It’s too early in the day to start drinking, or at least it’s too early to start drinking and feel good about it, but there’s no one around to question it when Kurt pours himself a second cup of coffee and adds a generous splash of Baileys to it. He adds a second splash because having no one around to question it is suddenly more than a little depressing.

As Kurt opens the second envelope, he braces himself, but the handwriting isn’t as sharp and angry-looking as the previous letter, which seems hopeful.  


> Dear Pvt. Pegleg,
> 
> So my roommate says I was, in his words, a little harsh and hasty. I told him it doesn’t matter what he thinks, ‘cause he’s just a gimp in a wheelchair, but he pointed out that at least he doesn’t swim in circles in the therapy pool. He’s got me on that one. I pull right like a motherfucker. 
> 
> Hopefully the radio silence is because you’ve got a life or you’ve got you a new girlfriend now, and not because I’m a total dick. I am a total dick and I can’t even play the disability card with you. What good are you, Ahab? 
> 
> You mind if I call you Ahab? Just don’t call me Ishmael. Wrong tribe. 
> 
> I swear I didn’t use to be like this. I started reading a lot in the hospital and now I’m all allusive or some shit. I blame the happy pills. Books and a psych drug cocktail renders any previously badass Marine poetic and rambly as fuck. My shrink upped my dosage on my Klonopin. Good times. 
> 
> Anyway, I get what you were trying to say, but I never did have that kind of relationship with my sister or my half-brother. It sounds like you and your brother were at least close once. I don’t know why you can’t fix things between you, but I’m telling you, there’s no way I’d have better luck at it than you would. 
> 
> Thanks for wanting to help though,
> 
> Not Ishmael. Queequeg Maybe.

  
Kurt smiles to himself as he reads the letter, because he’s both amused by the letter’s content and immensely relieved that he even received the second letter. He lays out a sheet of his own stationery and jots a quick note in response.  


> Dear Whoever You Are,
> 
> We seem to be cycling through names as rapidly as we are correspondence, though I suppose that isn’t saying much. Would email be a better format for you? It would be easier, faster, and cheaper, at least.
> 
> Think about it,  
>  Whoever I am

  
Kurt starts taking a taxi out to Wyckoff Heights every day, starting at four days after mailing his response. The first five days, he comes up empty-handed, but on the sixth day of making the trek to his PO box, a postcard is waiting for him. The message is only three lines long.  


> You,
> 
> Easier & faster for somebody with two hands. Letter writing only takes one. Guess how many I’ve got.
> 
> Me

  
Kurt starts laughing loudly enough that a pair of older women walking into the post office give him a suspicious look and a wide berth. He doesn’t even wait until he leaves to start working on his response; he sits down on the steps outside the post office and props his stationery on his leg, jotting out a quick note.  


> Sure, play the missing hand trump card. I see how this works. Can’t use voice-to-text like normal people, or does the big, bad technology scare you? I just think this would work better without the wait.
> 
> Patient, but not that patient

  
Another week, another letter, and Kurt could swear he’s spent more time over the last few months traveling to and from Wyckoff Heights than doing anything else but working, and he suspects Lacy is starting to get suspicious. Even when he knows enough time hasn’t passed to reasonably expect a response, he finds himself taking a taxi down to the post office nearly every day hoping for something, even just another postcard. His correspondences with Recipient #14507 are the high point of a life that Kurt realizes really has shrunk down to little more than his hours at the office and the occasional hour or two with colleagues at local bars or clubs. Genuine interpersonal contact, even if it’s still anonymous and long distance, is surprisingly reassuring.

If anything, the long distance anonymity is what _is_ so good about it, because Kurt can’t really connect with the non-anonymous people in his life, a fact he’s reminded of yet again when Burt calls.

“Hey kid, how’s the big city treating you?”

“Hi, Dad,” Kurt says. “The same as it always does, and you know you were supposed to stop calling me ‘kid’ a few years ago when I turned thirty. We’ve talked about this.”

“You’ll always be my kid, kid,” Burt jokes. “How’s work?”

“The same,” Kurt says.

“Personal life?” Burt asks.

“The same.”

“Seeing anybody new?”

“No, Dad,” Kurt says. “Nobody since Adam.”

“What, are the New York guys just not good enough for you, now? You’ve gotta start importing them?” Burt says.

“ _Dad_!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Burt says with a chuckle. “Listen, Carole and I were hoping that you might—”

“No, Dad.”

“Hey now, you didn’t even let me finish what I was saying!”

“I can guess, though. ‘Carole and I were hoping that you might come to Lima for a few days to visit’, is that right?” Kurt says, a little more sharply than he intends. “And that it would mean the world to her, and to you, too?”

“It would,” Burt says. “We lost one son, but sometimes we feel like we really lost both of you.”

“Dad, I just can’t, okay? I don’t want to go back to Lima and look through photo albums with Carole and drive out to Finn’s grave to leave flowers or anything like that,” Kurt says. “I don’t want to talk about all the fun times we had together, or how he was before he enlisted, or how he and Rachel could have made things work if maybe they’d had a baby or gotten a Golden Retriever or a goldfish! I can’t do that, Dad! I just can’t.”

“Okay, okay, just calm down,” Burt says. Kurt can hear the hurt in Burt’s voice, but there’s nothing Kurt can do about that. They’re all still hurting too much to do much to comfort each other. 

“Please just stop asking me,” Kurt says. “Please, Dad.”

“Okay, I’ll stop,” Burt says. “But if you ever change your mind, if you’re ever ready, you let me know, alright? I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“I will, Dad,” Kurt says. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, kid.  


  
When the next letter comes—and it is a letter, not just a postcard this time—Kurt takes it back to his apartment and tears into it with relish, dropping the envelope onto the floor in his haste. 

> Hey,
> 
> Ignoring comments about technology. I want to keep on liking you.
> 
> So a funny thing happened this week, and by funny I guess I just mean out of character, and it’s all your fault. I kept thinking about what you said about your brother. Now, I don’t know the whole story there, obviously, but I can see how much it hurts that you think things can’t be fixed between you. You feel bad about it. Probably he does, too. I know I got pissed when you tried to tell me to fix it with my own brother and sister, but I guess what I’m saying is, you want to fix it and can’t, so maybe it’s shit for me to not even try.
> 
> I tried. Not saying it all went smoothly, but I tried. Called up my half-brother and we talked for a long time. He might be flying out to visit me sometime this summer, even, and I sort of have you to thank for that. No real headway made with my sister yet, but I’m trying there, too. I sent her a birthday present and called her a few times. She usually tells me she doesn’t have anything to say to me, but at least she answers the phone when I call now, and that ain’t nothing. 
> 
> My shrink is tapering down my antidepressant. She wants me on the antianxiety stuff still, but we’re trying to scale some stuff back. She seems thrilled that I’m making progress. I don’t know how much progress I’m making, but I do at least feel like when we go through her little list of questions, I’m not having to lie about some of them now. Maybe I do feel a little hopeful. Nice to have things to look forward to, you know? Even if it’s just a letter. Even if it’s from some preachy New Yorker who thinks he knows everything. It’s making a fucking difference.
> 
> Now I’m getting maudlin so I’m blaming that on my meds tweak. That shit always unbalances me. And no jokes about how I’m already unbalanced, because I may swim in circles but at least I don’t talk in them. 
> 
> Write back soon so I can keep being lame (see, another joke! I’m allowed to joke about it, but you aren’t) and getting excited to get one of your letters in my box. 
> 
> Talk at you soon,  
>  N. P. 
> 
> P.S. My roommate Artie says hi. I think he’s as invested in this letter writing shit as I am. I told him if he likes it so much, he has to get his own pen pal, ‘cause he can’t have mine. 

  
Kurt’s surprised at the little leap his heart makes, and can’t quite put his finger on why. The letter contains a nice assortment of good news, from reassurances that this pen pal business is actually helping to Recipient #14507’s renewed contact with his siblings, and any of that could be cause for happiness on Kurt’s part. Once he’s attended to some business around his apartment, eaten a meal, and caught up on a few back episodes of _America’s Next Top Model_ , however, it suddenly strikes him.

It’s not the good news; it’s the possessiveness. Kurt can’t think of the last time someone referred to him as ‘mine’, even in such an obviously limited capacity. He hasn’t left himself open for many relationships over the last few years, hasn’t really fought to maintain the brief romantic relationships he _has_ had, and as much as he’s spent these last months beating himself up over the ways in which he failed Finn, Kurt hasn’t exactly cultivated any other relationships, either. He’s lonely, he realizes, painfully so, and that makes him feel guilty about Finn all over again, because Finn was probably even lonelier. 

The reference to talking in circles also sticks in Kurt’s mind. That is what he’s doing, to an extent, isn’t it? He has to talk in circles, because part of the basis of their communication is the magnificent lie that Kurt is actually Finn, a soldier and amputee with an ex-wife and an absentee brother, not a gay editor for a fashion magazine with no service records and no injuries, who has never maintained a romantic relationship that lasted longer than the one he had with his high school boyfriend, who felt relief more than anything else when the last person he dated moved back to London, because it meant one less human distraction. 

Kurt feels like a thief as well as a liar, because he’s receiving letters that should be going to another wounded soldier. All of this Marine’s humor and wit, the cutting remarks, those should belong to someone else. The fraud has gone on long enough, as much as Kurt hates to admit it. He’s a thief and a liar, and he can’t do this anymore, because the longer it goes on, the harder it will be to stop writing.  


> Dear N.P.,
> 
> Are those initials or did I miss a reference? 
> 
> Tell Artie I say hello back, and assure him he isn’t missing much. That’s what this letter is about, really. I haven’t been exactly honest with you. No, that’s a lie, too. I haven’t been at all honest with you. I’ve done something terrible. I’ve allowed these letters to continue under false pretenses, and for that I am truly sorry.
> 
> Your assigned pen pal, Recipient #5893, was a man named Finn Hudson, Private First Class in the Army. He enlisted later in life, after a period of not knowing what to do with himself, I think, but once he was in, he gave it his all. He was a wonderful man, always positive, always joyful until he lost his leg a little over a year ago, when everything seemed to fall apart. He always tried so hard, even then, to protect all of us from his pain. He would have been a wonderful pen pal, I’m sure. He was a kinder, better person than I. If he’d been of sound enough mind to write you back, I have no doubt you would have found a true friend in him. 
> 
> His wife abandoned him. His family abandoned him. I abandoned him. He was my brother and I abandoned him. I was a 20-minute taxi ride away and I never visited him, because seeing him like that made me too sad. It made ME too sad. Nevermind how he felt. I felt sad and I left him all alone. He overdosed on his prescription medications shortly before I wrote you for the first time. We don’t know if it was intentional or accidental, and I’m not sure I would want a definitive answer. 

  
As Kurt writes, he begins to cry. His guilt over Finn and his guilt over his own deception of this injured Marine, both wash over him. His tears drip onto the paper, blurring the ink in spots.  


> I lied to you. I am not Finn. I am not that good a man. I’m not a soldier. I have both of my legs, both of my arms. I’ve never sustained that sort of trauma or loss. I swear, my intention wasn’t to be hurtful. I wasn’t trying to manipulate or trick you. I didn’t want to deceive you, I just didn’t want to leave Finn’s business unfinished. It was selfish of me. I felt guilty and I thought I could help you, since I couldn’t help him. I apologize for the unmitigated ego of that presumption. 
> 
> You don’t owe me any kind of response. I wish you the very best. If my dishonesty has hurt you, I am so very sorry. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Kurt Hummel

  
After Kurt finishes the letter, he lies down on his bed and has a good hard cry. When he finishes, he washes his face, fixes his hair, addresses the letter with his actual apartment address, and walks down to drop the letter in the mailbox. He’s done all he can do at this point. Oddly, the confession does nothing to assuage his guilt about Finn; if anything, it only compounds it, because he’s burdened his pen pal with it as well.  


  
Kurt spends the next week doing his best not to think about the letter, not to think about Recipient #14507, and not to obsessively check his mailbox twice a day in hopes of a response. He goes to the office earlier than usual and stays even later, working through lunch and accumulating an embarrassing number of empty coffee cups on his desk for his assistant, Lacy, to deal with. At home, he goes through an equally embarrassing number of bottles of wine, but those he has to clean up after himself.

When a week passes with no response, Kurt takes a taxi out to Wyckoff Heights to check his PO box. He doesn't even try to act like he's not disappointed to find it empty. If nothing else, he'd expected a scathing response that would really give him some self pity to wallow in. It would have been cathartic, excised some of the emotionality out of the situation, but no, instead he's left with the same guilt that's been churning in his stomach since Finn's death. Apparently, Kurt has a unique ability to rewound already wounded soldiers.

He takes to drinking too much in the evenings as the second week of waiting begins, and he starts taking his Valium again, too. He's careful not to mix the two, at least; the family's quota of ambiguous overdoses has already been met. However much Kurt wants to wallow, he’s not going to do it at further expense to his dad and Carole. 

Two weeks and three days after Kurt mailed to the letter, he pours himself a full glass of wine and settles onto his bed with his phone, not even sure why he’s dialing this particular number, other than a need for a little more emotional self-flagellation.

“Kurt?” Rachel’s voice answers. She sounds surprised, maybe even a little out of breath. “How are you?”

“Rachel, hello,” Kurt says. “I’ve been better. How about you? How’s life treating you?”

“We can talk about me in a few minutes. What’s going on with you? I haven’t heard from you in months,” Rachel says. “I meant to keep in touch, of course, but…”

“Same,” Kurt says. “I understand. It’s hard when we’ve lost our biggest piece of common ground.” 

“Exactly,” Rachel replies. Kurt hears quiet talking in the background, a man’s voice.

“Am I interrupting something?” Kurt asks, a bit more sharply than he intends. 

“Actually, I’m on a date,” Rachel says. Kurt can picture her in his mind, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, tossing her hair back with a defiant head toss, the way she used to when they were just kids growing up together in Ohio. 

Kurt really can’t help himself, biting out a snippy, “A little soon, isn’t it?”

“Kurt,” Rachel says softly. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Kurt says. “It’s none of my business what you do with your time. I apologize.”

“It’s been months,” Rachel says. “Almost four months since he died, and I’d left him months before that. I’m a dead man’s ex-wife. That’s all I am. I’m not even his widow, Kurt. I’m allowed to have a life.”

“I know,” Kurt says. “I’m sorry, I know.”

“Do you? Do you really know that?” Rachel asks. Her voice isn’t unkind or harsh, just tender and faintly curious. Kurt realizes his cheeks are wet, though he couldn’t say at what point he started crying. “Do you know you’re allowed to have a life, too?”

“I have a life,” Kurt insists.

“When’s the last time you went out with somebody who you don’t work with? Have you even dated anybody since you stopped seeing, what was his name? Adam?” 

“I didn’t stop seeing Adam, Rachel,” Kurt counters. “He moved back to England to work in the London office. We parted on very good terms.”

“Fine, then. Have you dated anybody since Adam moved to London, period?” Rachel asks. “Or have you used Finn’s death as an excuse not to do that, either?”

Kurt sighs loudly and wipes his face, taking a large gulp of his wine. “It’s not an excuse. I’ve just been preoccupied with other things. I’m just not—”

“Not ready to stop blaming yourself for not doing more, and to start having any kind of actual personal life,” Rachel finishes. “Kurt, Finn won’t be any more alive if you’re alone forever, you know that, right? You can’t erase what happened by punishing yourself.” She sighs, too, before continuing, “I know you think I’m horrible for dating again already, but one life is already over, Kurt. It doesn’t fix anything for my life or your life to be over, too.”

Kurt isn’t sure how to respond to that, not even to himself, so he just says, “I won’t keep you any longer. Enjoy your night, Rachel.”

“You, too, Kurt,” Rachel says. “Don’t be a stranger.”

As Kurt ends the call, he wonders to himself if he’ll ever be able to be anything _but_ a stranger again. He’d like to, but he suspects he’s forgotten how. He falls asleep in his clothes after a third glass of wine, his face still wet from the tears that don’t seem to acknowledge that Kurt might have a right to move on and have a life of his own.  


  
The letter comes the next day, and Kurt retrieves it from his apartment’s mail box with shaking hands. He carries it with him in his front shirt pocket all day, underneath his brocade blazer and over his pounding heart. He waits until he’s home from the office late that evening to carefully open the envelop, breath catching at what he reads there.  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> So, to go ahead and clear the air here, I’ve known since the beginning that you weren’t Finn. It’s a pen pal group for a bunch of high-strung, mentally damaged military types, right? The organization guys don’t want us to feel rejected if we don’t hear from our pen pal, so they notified me that your brother had died. I knew before I ever got the first letter from you. 
> 
> I admit I was a little surprised at first when I got your letter, and it took me a little bit to figure out who you were, exactly, but then you just seemed like maybe you could use somebody to talk to. I thought maybe I could help you. It felt kind of good to think about doing for somebody else, instead of people all the time acting like they’ve gotta do for me. It’s funny how that turns out the be the biggest thing we have in common, wanting to help each other. 
> 
> I’m sorry I never did get to meet your brother. He sounds like a good guy. But you know, Kurt, you’re a good guy, too. I’ve been watching you beat yourself up over what happened to him, even if you didn’t come out and say it exactly, and I just wanted to say to you that it’s not your fault. Shit happens sometimes. Shit happens to some of us more than others. You’re not the reason your brother got hurt. You’re not the reason his wife left him. You’re not the reason his brain got all fucked up. You’re not the reason he died. I think somebody needed to tell you that. I’m actually kind of glad it could be me.
> 
> Maybe we can both help each other, like we both wanted to. You obviously need to talk about some of this stuff, and I sure as shit don’t have anybody who’s been better at listening to me and trying to draw me out of my turtle shell of one-armed misery than you. Weird to think of G-d putting us in each other’s paths, considering the circumstances that make us start writing to begin with, but maybe it’s our little reward for making it through.
> 
> It’s up to you if you want to keep writing or not. I’m just telling you that I want to if you want to (and Artie wants you to, too, ‘cause it gives us something to talk about besides our physical therapies and what meds we’re on).
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Noah P.

  
Kurt exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and with it goes a wave of tension, passing out of his body and leaving his shoulders, hands, and face relaxed in a way they haven’t been since before Finn died. Even if he doesn’t quite believe Noah’s absolution of Kurt’s guilt, to have somebody say it, so clearly, removes some of that weight, along with a good portion of the guilt over having lied to Noah. Kurt waits no time in sitting down to write his response, penning the letter so quickly that his normally neat handwriting is reduced to a loose scrawl.  


> Dear Noah, 
> 
> I’m so relieved that you knew. I’m still ashamed that I lied to you, but at least I wasn’t successful in deceiving you. I’m glad you can see that my attempted deception was well-meaning and rooted in the same spirit that your responses to me have been, a desire to help. I don’t know if I’ve helped you at all, but I know you’ve helped me, far more than I expected.
> 
> I’d like to keep writing, as long as you’re sure that’s fine with you. These letters have become the social high point of my life, and I kindly ask that you refrain from any commentary about that. I’ve already heard as much this week from my ex-sister-in-law. I’m aware that I haven’t given myself permission to move on and have a life and all those other things I’m supposed to do. I’m writing you, though, and that’s a start.
> 
> Thank you for that.
> 
> Kurt Hummel

  
Kurt mails the letter first thing in the morning, and heads into the office feeling lighter and happier than he has in months. After that, the letters come and go in a flurry, one arriving every few days as Kurt mails his responses back just as quickly. They don’t mention the deceit again, not once, just discuss topics ranging from trivial to serious that affect their lives. Kurt hasn’t had this kind of emotional openness with anyone in years – maybe ever. Slowly, very slowly, as weeks turn into months, things begin to feel like they might one day be okay again.  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Got your letter just in time. It’s been pissing rain here for days and if Artie doesn’t get out of this apartment for at least a few g-ddamn hours, I’m going to paralyze him the rest of the way…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> I don’t know who thought chartreuse should be the color for this season, but whoever he or she is, they never had to come up with decent complementary colors for a six page spread that also integrates marble sculptures of rabbits and robin egg blue accents. The mind reels… 

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Sometimes I think it’s funny that you and I both grew up in Ohio, less than a hundred miles apart, but we didn’t meet until we lived on opposite ends of the country. I’m not sure if it’s funny or not that neither of us will go back to Ohio…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> I have a good excuse not to go back, but you should consider it, at least. You should visit your sister and half-brother, and more importantly, you should see your daughter. She should have a chance to know you…

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> My new prosthetic is supposed to be here on Tuesday and it couldn’t happen soon enough. Now that I’m getting my guns back, the old one doesn’t fit for shit. It’s like trying to shove a ham into a garden hose…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> If the fit is good, you’ll have to include a photograph. You keep bragging about these legendary “guns” of yours, but since I don’t even have a face to put with the name, I have to assume you’re just making them up to further increase my own feelings of inadequacy. Now, if I had photographic evidence…

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Behold, the guns (photo attached, so don’t bend this letter and crease the guns). Since this whole relationship is built on what’s-it-called, the revolving door thing… 

> Dear Noah,
> 
> I rescind every doubt I’ve ever had about your guns. They are genuinely impressive. The new prosthetic looks like a good fit, too, at least as best as I can tell these things. Also, that’s a lovely tan they’re sporting. My own pale reedy limbs cry with envy. As requested, I’ve enclosed a photograph of myself. As you’ll see, what I lack in biceps and melanin, I more than make up for in expensive taste in clothing…

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> What’s that sweater made out of? It looks like the hair off a baby angel, but Artie says he thinks it’s alpaca or something like that. I’ll just lie to him and tell him I was right, though.
> 
> So, what you said a few letters ago about not wanting to go back to your hometown, but how I should, got me thinking, and I have a little wager for you to get you motivated…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> The trip back to visit my parents wasn’t as arduous as anticipated, especially because I could keep our little deal in mind. I drove out to the cemetery to put some flowers on Finn’s grave. I only cried for two hours afterwards, and I felt like you’d have been proud of me…

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Of course I’m proud of you. That shit is hard! Since you kept your end of the deal, I’m keeping mine, too. I wrote a letter to Beth. Almost sent it, too, but I wanted to wait until I heard for sure from you so I still had the option to chicken out if you did…

  


> Dear Noah,
> 
> Being a chicken isn’t attractive in a man with arms that size… 

  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> I mailed it. I couldn’t let any potential insult to my guns stand…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> I know fashion isn’t your area, but spite is. What’s the appropriate ensemble to wear to your dead brother’s ex-wife’s second wedding? I want to walk that line between ‘that was fast, are you pregnant?’ and ‘of course I respect your life choices, my dear old friend’. I was considering a gift of a set of those wipe-off table setting markers, so they’ll still be usable when she changes her mind about this one…

> Dear Kurt,
> 
> I’m actually almost jealous you got to go to that wedding today. Artie made me take him to the farmers market, since I didn’t have anything else better to do. We bought heirloom squash and five kinds of goat cheese. It was literally the gayest thing I’ve ever done that didn’t involve somebody’s dick…

  
Kurt nearly drops the letter when he reads it. First, he tries rereading it assuming that Noah’s using “gay” as a pejorative, but that doesn’t make it make sense, and besides, Kurt has made no secret of his own sexual orientation in his letters, including openly discussing a few prior boyfriends. Perhaps Kurt is just misunderstanding, and it’s some kind of quote from or reference to a media piece that Kurt isn’t familiar with, because Noah certainly isn’t gay _himself_. He has a teenage daughter in Ohio. He never mentions dating period, let alone dating men.

Kurt rereads the letter a few more times—no additional references to sex, gay or otherwise—before sitting down to write a carefully worded response, or at least, the intent is a carefully worded response. The actual response is a few inelegant lines.  


> Dear Noah,
> 
> If I’m reading your letter correctly, and a thousand pardons if I’m not, you’ve done gayer things that do involve somebody’s dick? Because I’m pretty sure you haven’t mentioned this even once in this whole correspondence that has been going on for close to eight months now! I don’t even care if it’s intrusive, I really need some gay dick-related answers immediately.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Kurt

  
Kurt quickly puts the letter in the mailbox before he can change his mind. An hour later, he starts regretting his wording, which wasn’t really carefully worded at all, the more he thinks about it. Three hours later, Kurt starts pacing around his apartment, second guessing not only that letter, but every letter he’s ever written to Noah at all. By six hours after putting the letter into the mailbox, Kurt finds himself sitting in front of the website for a high end food gift basket company, ordering a lavish assortment of items from the “Apologies” section to be sent to Noah’s address.

Five days later, Kurt gets a letter from Noah.  


> Kurt,
> 
> Got your gift. It’s delicious, oh my G-d it’s delicious, and Artie already stole the little shortbread cookie things and hid them somewhere in his room, but I’m not exactly sure what you’re apologizing for. The farmers market was pretty damn traumatizing but maybe not traumatizing enough for an apology basket. Is there something else up I should know about?
> 
> Either way, thanks! I’m going to go eat my weight in dark chocolate truffles and pears that were genetically modified to taste like strawberry-banana.
> 
> Yours in confusion & overeating,  
>  Noah

  
“Shit!” Kurt says, because that was the great flaw in his plan, the fact that the gift baskets arrived days before his letter did. He begins cursing himself for having never insisted on a phone number or Skype information, or even an email address, _something_ he could use to contact Noah immediately and tell him to just rip up the letter, never mind about Kurt’s nosiness, never mind that there’s no way Noah could interpret Kurt’s question about his sexual orientation as anything other than an expression of interest.

Which, Kurt realizes, it is. It is, because not only is Noah Puckerman funny, downright witty even, encouraging, supportive, surprisingly compassionate, well-written (and probably well-spoken), and willing to go with his friend to the farmers market to buy heirloom squash and goat cheese, not only is he almost painfully gorgeous and tan and in fine shape, but it’s also possible that he could actually be at least marginally sexually interested in men. 

“Shit,” Kurt says again, because it’s entirely possible he’s fallen in love with his pen pal who lives nearly three thousand miles away, four time zones of difference and a closet full of emotional baggage between them.

He considers writing back to Noah, but decides—probably wisely—to wait and see if Noah writes again after he receives the letter. The wait isn’t torturously long, at least, because another letter arrives two days later. He reads it over a light early lunch, sipping from a bottle of sparkling water.  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> I’m not gay.

  
Kurt’s heart sinks a little, until he continues reading.  


> I’m more like bi, but I’ve dated more guys than chicks since I hit my mid-20s or so. 

  
That perks Kurt up immensely.  


> You’re right that I haven’t ever mentioned it, though. I didn’t want to put you in any kind of weird position, or make you feel obligated or something, which now that I write it down, sounds kind of stupid. I didn’t want you to interpret stuff I said the wrong way, or the correct way but the way that might make you uncomfortable or overstep this whole pen pals relationship we have here. And fuck that is exactly what I’m doing here, now I’ll have to send you an apology fruit basket, which by the way I hope you saw I mentioned was really awesome. It was really awesome. I probably can’t afford to send you one that nice.
> 
> But so, when I mentioned it in that letter, I did it on purpose. I guess I just wanted to see what you’d say. I hope you do say something and this won’t keep you from writing back to me, or I set up that Skype thing, so you could call me on that, I guess. NEPUCKERMAN93.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Noah

  
Kurt doesn’t even put the letter down before he grabs his laptop, opens it, and pulls up Skype, typing in Noah’s name. It rings a few times before connecting, Noah’s face appearing on the screen, looking sleepy and slightly disheveled, blinking at the screen in confusion.

“Well, shit. I didn’t know it was a video,” Noah says, rubbing his eyes and blinking again. His hair is slightly longer than in the photograph, but still short. He isn’t wearing his prosthesis; his arm ends in shiny scar tissue just below the elbow. “Hey?” 

“I’m so sorry, did I wake you?” Kurt blurts out. 

Noah chuckles and shakes his head. “Your voice is higher than I imagined it being,” he says.

“You imagined my voice?” Kurt asks. 

“Yeah,” Noah says. “Is that alright?”

“Oh, it’s fine, I just—it’s higher than you thought it would be?” 

Noah nods as he shrugs. “Yeah. It’s nice, though. I like it.”

“You do?” Kurt asks, feeling flustered like he’s back in high school again. He flicks his hair off his forehead in a way that’s so studiously nonchalant that it probably looks ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Noah says again. “I like how you say your words. They’re…” He gestures with his hand. “I dunno. Crisp.” 

Kurt starts to blush, something else he hasn’t done since high school. Noah seems to notice, because he grins at Kurt through the screen. His smile is warm and more than a little sexy, not unlike his voice. Kurt takes another sip of his sparkling water to give himself a moment to realign his thoughts.

“So,” Kurt says, “you said I could Skype you.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d do it at eight in the morning,” Noah says. “Lucky for you I have PT at nine-thirty, or I wouldn’t’ve even been up yet. Still adjusting to the new arm.”

“Oh, yes, is that going well?” Kurt asks. 

“Kurt, I think you didn’t Skype at me to ask me about my new arm,” Noah points out.

“That’s true,” Kurt confesses. “I didn’t.”

“You called about my letter,” Noah says. “Either that or you called to see my guns in action.”

Kurt starts to laugh, shaking his head. “No, that wasn’t why, but if you’d like to give a demonstration, I wouldn’t say no.”

“I can do that,” Noah says, holding up his right arm and flexing his muscle. He leans out of the frame for a moment, and when he comes back, he’s fastening his prosthetic on his left arm. Once it’s secure, he flexes that bicep, too, wiggling his eyebrows in a comically suggestive way that makes Kurt laugh harder. “Yeah, yeah, so glad I could amuse you at the asscrack of dawn.”

“It’s almost lunchtime here. I didn’t even think about the time difference,” Kurt admits. “Honestly, I sometimes forget you’re on the West Coast.” He hums to himself and Noah raises his eyebrows.

“What?” Noah asks.

“I was just thinking this feels very natural,” Kurt says. “I thought it might be awkward, but it isn’t. It’s like talking to someone I’ve known for years.”

“Same,” Noah says. “Though, you’re cuter than the people I talk to every day.”

“ _Pfft._ Flattery,” Kurt says dismissively, waving his hand at the screen.

“No, it’s true,” Noah says.

“You live in Los Angeles, and you’re trying to tell me that I’m cuter than the people you talk to in your normal day?” Kurt says. “Not likely. Sweet, but not likely.”

“It’s true!” Noah insists. “Sure, there’s hot looking people, but most of them are the same kind of hot. It’s all blond and tan out here.”

“Poor baby,” Kurt says. “How you must suffer?”

“Hey, maybe I don’t like ‘em blond and tan!” Noah says. “Maybe I like ‘em lean and light.”

“Maybe _I_ like them tan,” Kurt counters. 

“Do you?”

“I might.”

“But not blond?” Noah asks.

“Sometimes blond, but it’s not my _type_ or anything,” Kurt says. “Athletic, now… _that’s_ a type.”

“Did I mention how much I can bench?” Noah asks, flexing his muscles again. “And that I’ve got a special arm to wear for when I lift.”

“Yes,” Kurt says through laughter. “You’ve mentioned the arm.”

“So does that make me your type?” Noah asks.

“I don’t know. I guess that depends on whether or not you want to be my type,” Kurt says. “Issues of distance aside, this whole relationship got started on something of an awkward foot.”

“So?” Noah asks. “It’s not a problem for me if it’s not a problem for you.”

“It’s not that it’s a problem for me, per se, but I think I’d always wonder,” Kurt says.

“What? Whether or not I like you?” Noah asks incredulously. “Kurt, I’ve been writing to you for months now, and I was starting to have feelings for you before you even sent me your picture, which kind of only made it worse.”

Kurt feels himself blushing again at Noah’s words, but he makes himself shake his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s… I just worry about the trust issue. We started this whole thing on a basis of dishonesty, no matter how well-meaning we both were. I deceived you, and you let me, and I’m not sure if that makes for a strong enough foundation for a long-distance relationship.” 

Noah doesn’t respond right away, and while Kurt does his best to study Noah’s face, he doesn’t really know him well enough to know what his expressions mean. Finally, Noah nods his head once, “Fair enough. You need to know it’s built on something sturdy. I get that.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says. “Maybe if you were local, or even just _one_ timezone away…”

“No, I get it,” Noah says, a little more forcefully. “We’ve got to figure out if we can even start something.”

“How do we do that?” Kurt asks. “My last relationship ended because he moved back to London. That’s not _that_ much farther from New York than California is, and we’d had nearly a year of living in the same city before we ever started dating.”

“And we’ve had nearly a year of writing to each other,” Noah counters. “It’s a start.”

Kurt allows himself a smile. “That’s true. It’s a start. A start of what, though? That part I’m not sure about.”

“How about this then? We keep on doing this for a while, this Skype thing, and we keep on writing, and we just give ourselves a chance to see what happens?” Noah says. “Can we do that at least?”

“Yes,” Kurt says, as he and Noah smile at each other. “That much, I can do.”  


  
That’s how it goes for the next few months, with regular letters and Skype calls, and Kurt feels like he’s starting to build something more than a foundation for a possible future relationship. He’s rebuilding himself again, starting to let go of the guilt and the sadness that has been weighing him down for nearly a year.  


> Dear Noah,
> 
> I let Josie, the Art Director, talk me into going to a Passion Party. I don’t know if you know what that is, but incidentally, it’s NOT a party for people who enjoyed bad ‘90s soap operas…

He Skypes with Noah several times a week. They always try to avoid topics they’ve discussed in letters until the recipient actually _gets_ the letter. Sometimes they even manage it.

“No!” Noah says, reading from Kurt’s most recent letter out loud. Kurt has the laptop on his table, a stack of galleys next to it, and a wine glass balanced on top of _that_. “That’s those parties with the—”

“ _Sex toys_!” Kurt finishes. “I _know_! Well, I know now, anyway.”

“Did you buy anything interesting?” Noah asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“What makes you think I bought anything at all, interesting or not?” Kurt asks coyly.

“Are you kidding? I know you bought something to be polite at least, and if you’re spending your money on it, I know it had to be interesting,” Noah insists.

“Well, I’m not saying that I _did_ buy anything,” Kurt retorts. “But if I did, it might be neon blue and require two AAA batteries.”

“Ha! I knew it!”  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Since you got me into the habit of writing letters in general, and you’re the one who talked me into writing to her specifically, I figured you should be the first to know. Beth wrote me back, and we’ve exchanged a couple of letters now. Didn’t want to say anything until I felt more sure about it, you know? I just don’t want her growing up thinking her dad doesn’t care about her, though, and I hope this makes a difference for both of us. Family’s important. I know you know exactly how important… 

  
“Noah, that’s so wonderful,” Kurt says when Noah answers the Skype call, looking flushed and sweaty. “Wait. Did I interrupt something?”

“Just got in from a run,” Noah says. “Keeps my head clear, you know?”

“I suppose so,” Kurt says. “Did you need to take a shower and call me back later?”

“Nah, just want to get this shirt off,” Noah says. Kurt watches Noah pull the damp shirt over his head and toss it out of the frame. He tries to keep his eyes off Noah’s sweaty chest, but he isn’t successful, and finally just lets his eyes wander over Noah’s tan skin and the pink scars marring it. When Kurt looks up at Noah’s face again, Noah’s grinning at him. “Like what you see?”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen an attractive, shirtless man,” Kurt admits. “Or at least, one that _Vogue_ isn’t paying.”

“Too distracting?” 

“Just the right amount of distracting, I think,” Kurt says.

“So I shouldn’t put on another shirt?” Noah asks.

“Seems like a waste. You’d just get it sweaty again,” Kurt notes. “I think you should leave it off in the name of fashion. 

Noah starts to laugh, shaking his head. “I guess if it’s in the name of _fashion_.”  


> Dear Noah,
> 
> It’s one of those days where I really need you to not live in California. On Thursday, it will be year since Finn died, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry all week…

  
Kurt takes Thursday off from work. He almost doesn’t answer the Skype call when it comes at around ten in the morning, but he decides that nothing can possibly make him feel worse, and that Noah usually makes him feel better.

“Hi,” Kurt says when he answers the call.

“Hi,” Noah responds. “How are you holding up?”

“Well, I haven’t started drinking yet, but then again, it’s only ten,” Kurt says, forcing out a small, humorless laugh.

“I’m sorry I live in California,” Noah says softly. 

“It’s not your fault. It’s not your responsibility, either,” Kurt says. “You never even met Finn.”

“You’re my friend. I care about you,” Noahs responds. “Besides, it’s—that’s how I met you. I may not have ever met Finn, but I owe him for that. He did me a solid, reaching out to the pen pal program, then leaving that letter where you could find it. Maybe it’s shit to think of it that way, and I’m not saying I don’t want him to be alive, of course I’d want that for you and your family, but he left behind something really amazing, okay?”

Kurt’s eyes well up, and the tears begin to roll down his cheeks. “But he didn’t mean for me to find that letter. He didn’t leave it for me. Finn would never have encouraged me to lie to anyone. That’s just not the kind of person he was. He wasn’t the liar.”

“Kurt,” Noah says.

“No, it’s true,” Kurt says, beginning to cry harder. “I couldn’t help him— _wouldn’t_ help him—but I was willing to lie to you, pretend to be somebody that I’m not, and tell myself I was helping you. This whole thing with us, that’s not because of Finn, it’s because I pretended to be a soldier with an amputated leg.”

“Hey, Kurt, come on,” Noah says. “I thought we weren’t talking about that anymore.”

“I feel like I stole you from him!” Kurt blurts out. “He should have had you to talk to. You could have done so much to help him. If he’d just written you back, if he’d just—”

“We don’t know what would have happened,” Noah insists. “There’s no way to know that. All I know is that you made my life better, and I feel like I owe Finn for that. And stop it with the whole lying about being an amputee, thing, will you?”

“It’s true,” Kurt says miserably. “I didn’t lose—”

“Bullshit,” Noah says. “You didn’t lose an arm or a leg, sure, but they don’t make prosthetics for the part you lost. You lost a whole brother. Don’t tell me you didn’t lose something.”

“I thought I was doing so much better,” Kurt sniffles.

“You are. Anniversaries of bad stuff suck, okay? But you’ll feel a little better again tomorrow and the day after that,” Noah says. “I promise you will.”

“Can you leave Skype up for a while today?” Kurt asks. “You don’t even have to talk to me, I just like feeling like somebody’s there.”

“Please,” Noah snorts. “Like you could _make_ me hang up.”

“Thank you, Noah.”

Noah gives Kurt a warm, if slightly sad, smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> Thanks for the birthday present. I can honestly say I’ve never owned a shirt quite this tight before, but in a good way, I think. Photographs enclosed…

> Dear Noah,
> 
> I was at the market the other day and saw the funniest little statue of a monkey. It reminded me of that story you told me about you and your younger sister on vacation that time, so I bought it, and now I have a statue of a monkey and no place to put it…

  


> Dear Kurt,
> 
> You’re on my mind today. I know we Skyped this morning, but it didn’t feel like it was long enough. It never does.
> 
> Love,  
>  Noah

> Dear Noah,
> 
> You’re right. It never does.
> 
> Love,  
>  Kurt

  
“Guess what?” Noah asks as soon as Kurt answers the Skype call.

“Your arm regrew in your sleep, but now you have evil lizard super powers?” Kurts guesses.

“No! That’s the plot of the twenty-teens Spiderman reboot!” Noah says. “Try again.”

“You’ve reenlisted and they’re stationing you in a luxurious home in Dubai?”

“You’re not even trying!” Noah argues.

“Fine, I admit I have no idea what the actual answer is,” Kurt concedes. “Can I pour myself more coffee first?”

“Nope,” Noah says. “You might get excited and spill it.”

“Then you’d better tell me right now,” Kurt says.

“I’m going to see Beth,” Noah says. “Beth said she wanted to see me, and her mom said it was okay!”

“Noah, that’s wonderful,” Kurt says. “Is she coming to Los Angeles?”

“No, I’m flying to Columbus to see her. Flight’s in three weeks, a little bit last minute, but I’m not gonna say no, you know?” Noah says.

“How exciting!”

“There’s one more thing, though,” Noah says. “And I’m not totally sure how you’ll feel about it.”

Kurt manages to keep the concerned frown off his face as he asks, his voice light, “Oh? What would that be?”

“I thought that maybe after I was done in Ohio, I could take another flight,” Noah says.

“To where?”

“To… New York,” Noah answers. “If you’re alright with that. If that’s something you’d want.”

“Oh! You’ll be flying _here_?” Kurt asks. “Really?”

“No, you’re right. It’s a stupid idea. I’ll cancel the—”

“Yes!” Kurt interjects. “Noah, yes. Yes, I’m alright with it. I’m more than alright with it. I want you to come to New York!”

“For real?” Noah asks.

“Yes. For real. And unless you have a deep need to stay at a hotel, you’ll stay with me, right?”

“I’d love that,” Noah says. “So that’s two great things to look forward to.”

“I can hardly wait,” Kurt says in agreement.  


  
The wait proves to be more difficult that Kurt expected, even, and he starts letting himself be dragged out to nearly every social engagement to which he’s invited, just to fill the time. He goes to cocktail parties in loft apartments and clubs, wedding showers, one of his co-worker’s bachelorette party and another co-worker’s bachelor party, and he even makes an appearance at Rachel’s baby shower. When he sees her rounded belly, he expects to keenly feel the pain of Finn’s loss, or anger at Rachel for continuing to move on so ferociously, but instead he just feels happy for Rachel and her husband.

“The waiting is going to kill me,” Kurt confides to Lacy, one of the few people to actually know the story of Kurt and Noah’s bizarre letter writing relationship. Not that it was voluntarily confessed, but she spends enough time around Kurt’s desk that she largely figured it out on her own, then bribed Kurt with baklava to get him to confirm it. 

“Now’s a good time to take up smoking,” Lacy suggests. 

“Cigarettes cost ten dollars a pack and you can’t smoke them anywhere to speak of anymore,” Kurt points out.

“Looking for a place you _could_ smoke would take up some time,” Lacy answers.

“That’s a strangely reasonable response, Lacy,” Kurt says. “How did you end up at a fashion magazine?”

“The very moment _The New Yorker_ offers me a job, I’m out the door,” Lacy replies glibly. “But I’ll still call for updates about you and Noah!”

“I’m not sure there will be much to update,” Kurt confesses. “It’s one thing to have this whatever-we-have in a long-distance capacity. I’m not sure how we’d manage something more substantial.”

Lacy shrugs, picking up the stack of galleys from Kurt’s desk. “Ask him to move here.”

“Don’t you have something to file?” Kurt asks, raising his eyebrow at her. She smiles back at him beatifically before turning on spot to walk out of his office. “I wish _The New Yorker_ would take you!” he calls after her.

Asking Noah to move to New York is hardly the thing to do upon a first in-person meeting, especially not one that comes right on the heels of Noah’s visit with his teenage daughter in Columbus. Kurt doesn’t even _want_ Noah to move to New York. No, they’ll have a nice visit, perhaps even one that gets more physical than Skype allows for, but it’ll end there. It has to end there, because Kurt isn’t sure he can put Noah back on the plane to Los Angeles if it doesn’t.

Oh. Maybe Kurt _does_ want Noah to move to New York.  


  
Kurt’s phone rings, and Kurt answers it quickly. “Are you there safely?”

“We’re taxiing,” Noah says in a hushed voice. “I’m not even supposed to have my phone on yet!”

“Well, it’s not your fault they have stupid policies,” Kurt says. 

“I’m just doing my duty as the rebellious type, bucking those policies,” Noah says. He laughs faintly, more of a nervous titter than anything else.

“It’s going to be great. She’ll love you,” Kurt says.

“I haven’t seen her since she was three,” Noah says.

“Then you’ve got a lot to catch up on,” Kurt replies.

“I kind of wish you could be here.”

“I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your time with Beth,” Kurt says, “but I wish I could, too.”

“You could hold my hand,” Noah says. “The real one.”

“How about I do that in a week when you come to New York?” Kurt offers.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Noah says. “Shit, we’re at the gate!”

“Do you need to go?”

“Can you just stay on the line with me until I find her?” Noah says. 

“Of course I can,” Kurt says. He hears some shuffling and bumping, presumably Noah disembarking from the plane. 

“What if I don’t recognize her?” Noah asks so quietly that Kurt almost doesn’t hear him over the background noise.

“You will. I know you will.”

“Oh, shit. I see her. I see her, Kurt,” Noah says. His voice is choked with emotion, and Kurt really does wish he could be there to hold Noah’s hand for him.

“Then go to her,” Kurt says. “You can call me later.”

“Thanks for encouraging me to do this,” Noah says. “I never would have done it without you.”

“We can both thank each other in a week for all the many, many things we’ve encouraged each other to do,” Kurt promises. “Okay? Now go see your daughter.”

“Okay,” Noah says, then just before he ends the call he says, “I love you.” 

The call disconnects before Kurt murmurs, “I love you, too,” but he says it anyway, because it’s true.  


  
Kurt’s relationship with the Metro Transit Authority has always been one of love-hate, but never more so than today. Every train feels late and overcrowded, and he has to wait for fifteen minutes for a taxi to LaGuardia, checking his watch over and over to reassure himself that he’ll still be more than early enough to meet Noah at the airport. In fact, despite the delays, he arrives a good half hour before Noah’s plane, so he ends up at the airport bar, sipping a martini and trying not to drum his fingers on the bar more than necessary.

His phone rings and he puts it to his ear immediately. “Noah?”

“I’m on the runway,” Noah says. “You ready for this?”

“I don’t know,” Kurt confesses. “Are you?”

“I have no idea. Not exactly sure what we’re supposed to do when we see each other,” Noah says.

“I know! Do we shake hands? Hug?” Kurt laughs and drinks the last sip of his martini.

“We could bow like Japanese businessmen,” Noah suggests. 

“That would certainly keep it formal,” Kurt says.

“I guess we’ll know when we see each other,” Noah says. “Or we’ll just end up standing there staring at each other. Oops, we’re at the gate now. I’ll see you in just a few minutes.”

“I’ll be here,” Kurt assures him. He pays his tab and takes a deep breath, then heads towards the lobby near baggage claim, where a steady stream of people flows from the various gates. 

Five minutes pass, then ten, and Kurt’s heart rate starts to spike through the roof in nervous anticipation when he hears a familiar voice call out, “Kurt!”

Kurt turns, his eyes searching the crowd for Noah’s face. Finally he sees him, pushing his way through the people at a jog, wearing a wide smile. Kurt feels his own face split into a grin as he starts to sprint towards Noah. When they meet each other, they both freeze, smiles still in place and eyes traveling over each other’s faces. Noah’s eyes are a warm hazel, lighter than they look on Skype, and Kurt realizes he’s actually slightly taller than Noah, though Noah’s chest and shoulders are much broader. 

“Hello, Noah,” Kurt finally says.

“Hello, Kurt,” Noah says. 

“I don’t want to bow,” Kurt says.

“Me either.”

Kurt reaches for Noah’s hand, slipping his fingers between Noah’s and giving a gentle squeeze. Noah squeezes back, his body moving so he’s almost pressed against Kurt, and suddenly Kurt’s other arm is around Noah’s neck, and they’re kissing in the middle of the crowd of people. Noah’s other arm goes around Kurt’s waist, and Kurt can feel the harder material of the prosthesis pressing into his lower back, but that just makes it all that much more real. 

Kurt’s mouth moves against Noah’s, his hand cards through Noah’s short hair, and all the questions of what to do, of whether this is a good idea, vanish. They kiss for several long minutes, until Kurt is dizzy and breathless, before they simultaneously pull away, smiling again.

“I love you, too,” Kurt breathes out. 

“That’s quite a hello,” Noah says, his smile widening even more. 

“Yes, it was,” Kurt agrees.

“So what now?” Noah asks. 

“I’m not sure, but I think we’ll figure it out,” Kurt says, squeezing Noah’s hand again. “I think we’ll be okay.” 

And it’s true. For the first time in a long time, Kurt feels like he really will be okay. He’s moving forward in increasingly wider, stronger steps, and so is Noah, and maybe they can help each other keep moving forward together. Together, maybe they can figure out this whole having a life thing. The prospect no longer sounds quite so daunting.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by **Patchfire** and **Separatrix**.
> 
> Graphics by **Patchfire**.
> 
>  
> 
> “Within the soul of each Vietnam veteran there is probably something that says ‘Bad war, good soldier.’ Only now are Americans beginning to separate the war from the warrior.” -- Max Cleland*
> 
>  
> 
> *In case anyone was wondering where my title came from. Max Cleland was the last Democrat from Georgia to serve out a full Senate term. He is also a Vietnam War veteran, a triple amputee, and one of the most inspiring speakers I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear in person. 


End file.
